Bits and Pieces
by Baka-Sensei
Summary: A compilation of oneshots done for livejournal challenges. First three focus on Maureen, Collins and Mark, respectively. Fourth is pure crack. Rated T for swears.
1. Role of a Lifetime

Yaaaay! So I finally got around to posting this compilation of one-shots. They're all challenges I did for my livejournal community Rent for Bastards. I'll post the link to the community in my profile. Go check it out!

Anyways, these are all stand-alone stories, and hopefully I'll be adding to them as time goes on. Hoorah.

* * *

**Role of a Lifetime**

_A Maureen Introspection_

By Baka-Sensei

Everything in Maureen's life is like a play. She's acted her whole life. It comes as naturally as breathing.

"Maureen, what am I going to do with you?" her mother moans when she's twelve years old and has just been caught making out with a sixteen year old boy behind the bleachers. The woman is all concern, the worry tightening her frame to the point Maureen's afraid she'll break. She's just threatened to ground her daughter until she turns eighteen.

_Cue watery eyes. The next lines are said in a remorseful tone._

"I'm sorry…I… it wasn't my fault!"

Within five minutes, Mom is convinced Maureen had no idea that she was doing something wrong. She's blaming Jason for everything. Making an angry call to his mother. That's talent, Maureen thinks.

* * *

"You're dropping out of high school… to act?" Dad on the phone. Maureen is perched on the stained sheets of a creaky bed in a seedy hotel on the outskirts of New York. She's only seventeen years old. He's nearly hysterical and has said he'll call the police if she doesn't come home. 

_Cue breathy, hopeful voice. Turn on the charm._

"Daddy, this is my dream. My friend Amanda, you know her aunt lives here. I'm staying with her. If you don't believe me, let me give you the address. You can come anytime you want to visit."

By the end of the conversation, Maureen's father believes that she's safe in a home with the loving family of her friend Amanda, a girl who doesn't exist. Sure, it helped that her father never took a real interest in her, never really cared about her, always wished she'd been a boy, but still, that took talent.

* * *

"Where were you last night?" Mark, eyes weary, knowing the real answer, but too tired or stupid or _in love_ to call her on it. She knows she'll get away with the cheating no matter what she does. At twenty-one, Maureen is no idiot.

She ignores the regret, the guilt, even anger at herself when she sees that vulnerable look in those blue eyes. She knows she doesn't deserve Mark. She knows he's too good for her. She knows the reason she's cheating is that she doesn't want to face the fact that someone could love her as much as Mark does, that she can't love him back in spite of that. Knows that that scares her more than anything has ever scared her in her life.

_Stop. Breathe. That's not in character. Bat the eyelashes. Cross right. Kiss. _

"I was out with my new friend, Patty. She's a great girl. I told her all about you. I was thinking about bringing her around today. What do you think, Pookie?"

Mark even fucking _smiles_ at that. It doesn't matter that 'Patty' is actually 'Patrick'. She's gotten even better at this over the past few years. Act innocent. Oblivious. Loud. Obnoxious. Never let the smile slip. That's talent.

* * *

"For God's sake, Maureen, could you be serious for one second? You're worse than a little kid." Joanne's exasperated grumble. Maureen ignores the sting she feels at the words. The feeling is muted, anyway. It's always like that when she's in character. Nothing can touch her, because it isn't really _her _there.

It's been two months since she finally left Mark. Since she admitted to herself that she might really feel something for this woman, something beyond the camaraderie she feels for her friends, beyond the slight affection she's felt for the other people she's slept with before. It'd been the most gut-wrenching admittance Maureen had ever made to herself. No one had noticed. To everyone else, it had seemed to be a decision made on a whim. Because that's who Maureen is. Silly. Spontaneous. A fickle, colorful creature, flitting from one flower to the next like a humming bird. She's that good at her act.

_Cue pouting lips. Sweep the love interest into a hug. Pause. _

"Awww, Pookie! You think I'm funny! Being serious is no fun!"

Joanne still looks slightly suspicious. It was Maureen's first clue that the woman was different. She can see through her a little. With practice, Maureen thinks she could see past the character entirely. That scares her more than Mark ever did.

* * *

"I love you." Joanne again. This time, they're curled up on their couch. It's a month since they found Mimi, and the family is whole again. Maureen and Joanne have decided to take a quiet night off to spend together.

Maureen smiles. For the first time in her life, she feels like it's okay to just… be. And she can't believe that the woman in her arms right now has lead her here, helped her come to this beautiful place in which she exists now. She can't believe it, but she won't question it. It's important to be thankful for what she has right now. The last year has taught her that.

_Curtain closes. Step off stage. _

"I love you, too."


	2. Scratching the Chalkboard

**Scratching the Chalkboard**

_Story of an Anarchist  
_

By Baka-Sensei

Thomas Collins subconsciously knew that the moment he woke up, the muted feeling of pain pressing behind his eyelids would only increase. Therefore, he was quite content to fall into a deeper sleep to wait out the worst of it. He'd never really been into pain.

Except for when whips and paddles were involved. That could be good. Of course, that was a different type of pain all together. Certainly not the kind that was just waiting for him to wake u…

Shit.

It wasn't the first time he'd distracted his subconscious into wakefulness. Damn his wandering mind. He hissed at the pounding in his temples, the pain increasing to a point where he thought he'd pass out. Sadly, it only increased to a point where he _wished_ he would pass out.

Life could certainly be a bitch.

He cracked an eye open, snapping it shut again when the light made his headache worse. After a minute or two to build up the nerve, he opened it again. Okay. Not so bad this time. He could deal with it.

The glaring of his digital alarm clock told him he was going to be late for class. Granted, it took him a couple of moments to register that fact, but register it did. Fuck.

Why hadn't his TA this week… what was that kid's name… Daniel? David? Dylan? …called him to wake him up? Jesus, his phone was usually ringing off the hook at least an hour before the first class of the day, so what the…? It was at this moment that another important piece of information registered. There was a warmth and solidity pressing into his back. This warmth also happened to be breathing in and out.

He turned his head slowly to find himself nose to nose with the still-sleeping form of his naked TA. Despite the pain, he managed a smirk. Well, that explained that. It also explained the marks on his neck and why he felt slightly sore in all the right places. Must have been one hell of a night. Too bad he was having trouble remembering it.

He rolled out of bed with a wince, limping to his closet and pulling on some clothes. When he had some trouble with the tie, he threw it back into the closet on top of a pair of running shoes. Fuck it. He never liked the things anyway. Who knew what the hell they were trying to symbolize about the bondage of a blue-collar job… he shivered.

Well, at least the timer on his coffee-maker still worked. He poured himself a cup on the way out the door after grabbing a battered lesson plan that was lying forlornly on the table. He had an apartment on campus and it was only a short walk to his classroom, but by the time he got there, he was still a good twenty minutes late.

There were only three students left. The only three who ever really took notes, asked questions and attended all the classes. Overachievers. For some reason, he felt a little pang of pity.

Everyone else must have waited the standard fifteen minute grace-period and high-tailed it out to get some early drinking in. Collins wished he could be angry or disappointed, but the pounding in his head reminded him that he really wasn't one to judge. He finished his coffee in one gulp and strode up to the podium.

He spoke while he got his papers organized.

"Well, either you three are the best and the brightest or dumb shits who didn't get out of here when you still could. Guess you chose propriety over pragmatism. As such I suppose we'll have a more relaxed lesson today, and maybe I'll give you a few hints about the upcoming exam."

He looked up to see them all staring at him, their faces painted with something akin to awed shock. Well, Christ. He knew he probably looked like shit, but they were acting like they'd seen a vision of the Virgin Mary. He didn't know whether to be insulted or amused.

He settled on amused (it just came more naturally) and started writing out points on the board. He lectured for a few minutes, and sure enough, soon the sound of pens scratching on paper underlined his words. The girl with the mousy colored hair kept shooting him looks and blushing, though. Maybe he'd have to have that 'talk' with her after class. The one that explained he didn't have sex with students… unless they were much more attractive and definitively male. He smiled. That might very well change the direction his day had been taking so far.

It took them a lot longer than it normally did to start asking questions, and when they did, they acted a lot more subdued and wouldn't really look at him. Huh. That was fucking weird. Maybe he'd figure it out when he wasn't so hungover. Right now he just couldn't bring himself to care that much.

He dismissed class twenty minutes before it was due, and the three students rushed out. He watched them go, an eyebrow quirking when they started whispering excitedly the second they got passed the door. Weirder and weirder.

He was rearranging his notes and getting ready for the next class when Professor Warden from next door popped his head in. The man turned an interesting shade of red and bustled up to Collins, looking slightly panicked.

"Mornin', John! Actually, maybe afternoon is closer to the truth," Collins started with a smile. "Well, feels like morning, but that might just be because--"

"Tom," Professor Warden interrupted, his eyes darting around nervously, "you look like you've had a bad night. You really ought to go home and get some rest…" Collins chuckled.

"Well, I thank you for your concern, professor, but really, I'm a big boy. Besides, I have another class in half an hour."

"No… really. You should go home," Warden repeated, glancing down pointedly.

Collins eyes followed the same trail down and stopped in slight shock. On the bright pink shade of his boxer shorts and his decided lack of pants. Well, damn. He looked back up with a sheepish grin.

"Y'know, you might be right, John," he said. Professor Warden nodded sharply and made a hasty retreat with a muttered, 'Good day.' The minute the door closed, Collins' sheepish grin grew wider.

Fuck. This could be better than that day at the Parthenon. Why hadn't he ever thought of this before? He should have drunken, inappropriate romps more often if they ended this brilliantly.

When the next class filed into the room, he understood only too well what the gaping mouths, wide-eyes and half-hidden snickers were about. He held back a laugh of his own. It was turning out to be quite an amusing day.

He got fired two days later. The only time he'd ever gotten canned for a reason besides his supposed 'crack-pot theories and general tardiness'.

He would always consider it one of his greatest accomplishments.


	3. I Know Where I've Been

Soooo, I'd love to get some reviews on this one, because it's the first time I've attempted to write in first-person. Tell me what you think:-D**  
**

* * *

** I Know Where I've Been**

_A Deleted Scene_

By Baka-Sensei

"I was gonna go try to find Collins," I start, pulling on my gloves that are so thin they don't really do a whole lot to hold out the winter cold. "You wanna come?" The question even sounds weak to my own ears. All he does is stare back, not quite meeting my eyes.

"I thought we could all grab some dinner," I add after a beat, cursing the pathetic smile that creeps its way onto my face. I've never been good at confrontation. And even though the air is so thick and silent that it starts to grate on my nerves, this feels like more of a battle than outright shouting. He lets out a huff of breath.

"Zoom in on my empty wallet," he states apathetically. I almost wince, but manage to push back the cold feeling of expected disappointment that settles in my stomach.

"Touché. Take your AZT," I remind him, probably for at least the fifth time that day. Then the door's sliding open and closed with a tinny sound. My lips quirk up when I can hear the muffled notes of Musetta's Waltz following me down the stairs. At least he's taking an interest in… _something_… again. And this is the first he's touched that guitar in a year. Baby steps.

The chill air hits me in the face as I step outside and I suppress a shiver. Damn, it's cold. Not that it's much warmer in the building, but there's at least some rickety walls to hold back the worst of the wind. I walk stiffly across the street to the pay phone, resting my palm on the handle for a moment. I move to the middle of the street where I threw the key to Collins and look up. I turn around in a full circle, then go to the sidewalk again when a car turns onto the street. Shit, I don't know how I was expecting to find him from here. Panic starts to mingle with the worry that's clawing its way up my chest. I shake it off and start walking.

There's a man sitting on a stoop not far off. He's resting his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. A scraggly beard covers his chin below sunken, sallow cheeks. Smoke curls up from a joint in his mouth. I approach him slowly.

"Uh… hey," I catch his attention, his eyes narrowing at me. "I'm looking for a friend. Did you see a tall black guy at the pay phone over there a few minutes ago?"

He exhales loudly, blowing smoke in my direction. The whites of his eyes are almost completely red, the pupils dilated.

"I didn't see shit," he states with a smirk, the lie obvious. The fact that he knows _I _know he's lying just makes him smile wider. Jesus. Fucking New York.

"Okay… well, thanks anyway," I mutter, passing him, feeling like a coward for not pushing the issue. His laugh follows me. Son of a bitch. He wouldn't have told me anything unless I beat the shit out of him. Or paid him. Neither of which were an option. I'm scrawny and broke. Does life get any better?

Fuck. I hate this. The uncertainty of what happened to Collins is starting to get to me, and since that asshole saw _something_, it can't be good. Images of finding another friend covered in their own blood, eyes opened but unseeing flash through my mind. Only this time, the scene is set in some God forsaken back alley instead of a dirty bathroom. And now the damn wind is making my eyes burn.

I start combing the area, walking down block after block, peering into deserted side-streets and in between buildings but never quite getting the courage to go down one. Is it weakness or self-preservation that stops me? Are they the same thing? I check my watch and realize it's been an hour since I started. With a sigh, I pull my camera out of my bag, fiddling with it for a moment before turning it on, pointing it at myself.

"Close on Mark," I narrate, "after an hour of fruitless searching, his extremities about as numb as his current emotions, worry kept at bay by a good dose of denial."

I swing the camera out to the nearly deserted street with a wince. I need to seriously work on that narrating thing. That was just stupid.

I spend at least another hour searching, but now I've got my camera out so it's not so bad. Shit. I know it isn't healthy, the way I carry the Goddamn thing around all the time… especially at a time like _this_… but, somehow, I feel safer with it nestled against my chest, recording everything I'm seeing. Unhealthy or artistic? It's probably not coincidence how often those two traits coincide.

My thoughts swing back to Roger. I wonder what he's doing, alone in the loft? He's bound to have put his guitar away by now. There's another thing that's unhealthy about me. Normal people don't obsess this much about their best friend. I snort. Normal people don't obsess this much about things _in general_. It's always about detail.

Like with Roger. He refuses to leave the apartment. Hasn't shown a real interest in anyone or anything for months. He used to spend hours practically comatose. I usually have to bully him into taking his meds, into eating, into taking care of himself at all. If I only looked at the big picture, any hope I might have felt at the beginning of this whole ordeal would have been completely put out by now. I guess I am a little jaded about the whole thing… but still…

Still, there's the little things. The way he's started smiling again. Sure, at first it looked so fragile and out of use on his face that it nearly killed me to look at it, but now he's almost smiling as much as he used to. He's been talking a lot more, even starting conversations on his own. The most I used to be able to get out of him was a few sentences here and there after pointed questions. He hasn't been constantly sitting with his arms crossed, practically hugging himself the second he's off his feet. His eyes have even started to flicker with that light I'd thought had completely died out the second he saw that note.

I guess maybe watching a person through the worst of times allows you to see that type of thing. Or maybe I _am_ obsessive. What does it matter anyway? We got through it didn't we?

I find myself examining some of the moments from the past year. The nights when I'd hold him, his shaking threatening to throw us both off the bed, his cold sweat soaking into my clothes, his whimpers muffled in my shoulder. The times I'd catch him leaving, both of us knowing where he was headed. The times I could talk him out of it, the bruises from when I couldn't and he'd turn violent. The mornings he'd go practically crazy, begging for a hit, something to end the pain, scaring the shit out of me because he'd be so weak that even I could hold him back. The moment I realized that I couldn't do this by myself, the humiliating call to my parents to beg for enough money to get him into rehab, still doubting whether I was doing the right thing. The weeks after rehab he'd spend in his room, staring listlessly at nothing.

He's my best friend. He's closer than a brother to me. I'd do anything for him. I'd even fucking die for him if I had to. Then why the hell am I so terrified to admit to myself that I love him?

I'm jolted out of my thoughts when I realize that I've made a complete circle back to our building. I put the camera back in my bag and walk up the stairs feeling disheartened and more worried about Collins than when I left. I guess this is one of those 'wait and see' situations. I wish there was something more I could do. I hate feeling so Goddamn helpless.

"Hey," Roger states when the door opens, and I shoot him a tense smile before hanging my scarf up. "Did you find him?"

"No… but you know Collins. He'll show up when we least expect it," I tell him, trying to convince myself in the process. "What did you do while I was gone?" His eyes take on this weird glow, and a smile ghosts over his face.

"Played the guitar for a while… and then this girl from downstairs came up asking for a light. She's a dancer at the Cat Scratch. She was…sweet," he concludes on a near whisper.

I practically do a double take. Did Roger Davis just use the word 'sweet' in a sentence? There's an unexplainable sickening pang that hits me in the gut. I do my best to ignore it.

"Really? So, you like her?" Nonchalance was never my forte. Roger gives me a funny look.

"Sure, I like her. She was nice enough, I guess."

"Well, you gonna do anything about it?" He instantly becomes guarded, and I fight against the sick feeling in my stomach as I continue. "C'mon, Rog. It would be good for you," I say. His eyes darken and I see the explosion coming.

"No," he bites out. "All I said was she was nice. Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone, Mark?" He turns, conversation over, and stomps into his room. I hear the strangled notes of his guitar again.

I sigh, and head back to my own room. It _would_ be good for him. And at this moment, I have that same realization I had months ago. I'm not enough to take care of Roger. Never have been. He doesn't need me anymore. I'm so sure of it that the next day, when there's writing on the window, I'm encouraging him to see her again.

I ignore the way my heart drops into my stomach.

"Oh, come on, Roger…"


	4. Canabis and Care Bears

Holy crap. It just FIGURES that the moment I start actually writing again, actually have IDEAS and PLOT BUNNIES bouncing around in my head, that I would have just started a second job and be searching tirelessly for a new apartment. I honestly don't know if anyone reads my crap anymore. That's how long I've been gone.

Anyway, this is for Katie, who took me to see Rent on Broadway (for real. As in the NederlanderZOMFGBBQHOTTNESS! I got to hug Tim Howar, who plays the dorkiest Roger around and who partially inspired this piece.) Thanks to her, I've not completely given up on Rentfic. Pray there will be more from me in the near future.

This was written for Prompt #4 on Rent for Bastards (I know it's over a year late. Deal), which was to have the Rent characters act in a childish manner. The only way I could get them to reach their inner child was by getting them high. Huh.

Crack!alert like whoa.

* * *

**Canabis and Care Bears**

_The After-School Special_

By Baka-Sensei**  
**

"You'd be Secret Bear," Collins stated apropos nothing.

"What?" Mark asked, his eyes hooded, as the statement seemed to be directed at him.

"If you were a Care Bear," Collins nodded sagely, as if that explained everything. "You'd make a good Tender Heart Lamb too."

"Are you high?" Angel asked with a raised eyebrow. Collins laughed and pulled her closer to him where they were seated precariously on the table. It wobbled slightly at the motion.

"Damn right I am. Aren't you?" He glared accusingly, as if being sober was a deplorable state. Which it kind of was. Across the room, Mimi giggled.

"Don't the Care Bears even have a cartoon?" she asked.

"It got canceled last year," Roger answered morosely. Four shocked stares landed squarely on the guitarist.

"What?" he asked, twirling the third joint of the evening in his fingers before passing it to Mark. "It's the only thing they play on Sunday mornings. Besides, it was a good show."

"Even if you were _awake_ in the mornings, we don't have a television, Rog," Mark reminded with a look that screamed, _Seriously, what the fuck, _before he took another hit.

"Huh." Roger looked surprised.

"_Care Bears,_ Rog? As in, happy little fluffy animals that fly around in Cloud Cars and make children love one another more?" Mark pressed.

"Aha! See, you watch it too!" Roger exclaimed triumphantly. Mark blushed.

"Cute. Definitely Tender Heart Lamb," Collins confirmed.

"I am NOT Tender Heart Lamb," Mark grumbled. "Who would _you _be?"

"Bright Heart Raccoon," Collins answered immediately.

"Oh, yeah? How come?" Mark challenged. Collins took a hit and passed the joint to Angel.

"He's good with computers," he stated on the exhale. "Plus, he always did seem to have a streak of rebellion in him."

"Why am I Tender Heart Lamb?" Mark whined from his sprawled position on the floor.

"Duh, Mark. Cuz you're quiet and caring and bashful and…and… _tender_," Mimi scoffed, her slightly pinkened eyes narrowing at his idiocy.

"Who would I be?" Angel asked excitedly.

"Definitely Love-A-Lot Bear," Collins said warmly, kissing her on the lips. Roger rolled his eyes. Mimi smacked him on the arm before snuggling up to him again, her back to his chest with his arms and legs wrapped loosely around her.

"You'd be Grumpy Bear," Mimi said staring upside-down into Roger's chin. He snorted.

"Then _you'd _be Lotsa Heart Elephant," he teased, insighting Mimi to promptly move from his embrace and start beating him into the couch. Roger laughed at the tickling blows.

"I think she's more of a Playful Heart Monkey, personally," Angel chuckled. Mimi glared at her best friend.

"As if a monkey is much better than an elephant," she groaned. The room lapsed into silence.

"I can't believe we're sitting around getting high and deciding which Care Bear everyone would be," Roger said finally.

"Somehow, sadly, I can," Mark mused.

"You're just depressed you're not someone cool like Wish Bear. All you get is Tender Heart Lamb," Roger accused.

"I hate you so much," Mark mumbled.

"What was that, Tender Heart? Your gentle voice is incomprehensible like a sweet summer breeze," Roger crooned. Collins stared.

"You're weird when you're high, Roger," Angel stated before stamping out the cashed joint with a three inch heel.

"You get used to it," Mark said.

"Well, you won't have to deal with it for much longer. That was the last of my chronic," Collins informed them. The room took on a slightly grieving tone.

"…Don't we have some whiskey left?" Roger asked.

"The horrible stuff that tastes like used gym socks and stale gingerbread houses?" Mimi grimaced.

"I think we do," Mark said. "One minute."

When he came back with the vile tasting alcohol a couple minutes later, everyone, even Mimi, cheered.

* * *

A/N: The information on the Care Bears was as correct as I could make it. Wikipedia is my friend. :D 


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